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The Windmill

- Another Love Story,
by Florence Galek

The windmill stood like a beacon on a small rise overlooking the valley. So warm, friendly and welcoming. Not at all the way I had pictured it after hearing John's story. John, a young airman friend, had rather anxiously invited me over this evening. I had earned a reputation for "feeling" the atmosphere of houses, so I was visiting this evening, in response to a request for my services.

The windmill had stood abandoned for many years, until the recent owner turned it into a dwelling. Three young airmen, stationed at RAF Lakenheath, now shared it. John used the top bedroom. By the time he spoke with me, he was visibly shaken, unable to sleep and afraid to tell anyone what was happening to him. Night after night, he was awakened by the sound of a distant call, his name whispering in the wind, a girl's voice crying, calling,: "John, John, I'm waiting for you. Come to me, my sweetheart." Not knowing how he got there, he'd find himself on the roof, fighting a desire to jump.

This had happened so many times he was now frightened for his life! He put a padlock on the door to the roof and would lock himself in at night. But he could have no peace in the room. He showed me through an attractive house. His room, the smallest, was adequate and comfortable with a ladder leading to a door to the roof. The men used the roof as a patio. In John's room I noted a chill in the air, papers were moving gently on his desk, as though a breeze were blowing. But no windows were open, nor were there any openings that would allow any drafts...

In John's room I became aware of a chill in the air, papers were moving gently on his desk, as though a breeze were blowing. But no windows were open, nor were there any openings that would allow any drafts.

When we returned to the living room, I told the three men that there was "something" present but it did not seem to emit any kind of evil aura; rather there was a feeling of sadness and despair.

All three young men joined me in attempting to reach whatever spirit was inhabiting the space on a ouija board John had constructed. All that came through was gibberish. We were about to give up. Suddenly we were stopped by the sound of sobbing in the room and our makeshift pointer/wine glass began moving rapidly from letter to letter, so quickly it was difficult to follow.

We had contacted the spirit of Barbara Hollis. She had met her death by leaping from the top of the mill more than one hundred years ago. She was only 16 and in love with a village boy. When her father learned she was pregnant, he locked her in the top room of the mill, then used for storage. She never heard from her sweetheart, Jonathon again. In great despair, she threw herself off the roof of the mill. Long after death had parted them, she still called Jonathon to come to her. Just as we were feeling the chill of these disclosures, the sobbing stopped.

The next evening, the young men stopped at the local pub to ask about the history of the mill. Several gentlemen were more than eager to confirm the story of Barbara and Jonathon. They said that after her death, Jonathon left the area and Barbara's father sold the mill to go into seclusion. His wife died soon after - some said of grief. The mill was abandoned and fell pretty much to ruin, until it was bought by a London man, who renovated it. No other tragedies were associated with the place, but tenants did not stay long.

Later, we gathered a group of spiritualists at the mill and gently put her spirit to rest. Soon, the mill was as warm and friendly inside, as it looked from the road.